is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

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Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.


[6-16-2009 Update Insert: Most of what is in this space is now moot. I found out what I was doing wrong and have reinstated Archives and Labels searches. They do work. However, in certain cases you may prefer Labels to Archives. Example: 1976 Today begins in November of 2006 and concludes in December of 2006, but there are other related posts in other months. Note: Labels only shows 20 posts at a time. There are 21 hubs, making 21 (which is for 1976 Today) an older hub.] ********************************* to my online poems and song lyrics using Archives. Use hubs for finding archival locations but do not link through them. Originally an AOL Journal, where the archive system was nothing like the system here, this blog was migrated from there to here in October of 2008. Today (Memorial/Veteran's Day, May 25, 2009) I discovered a glitch when trying to use a Blogger archive. Now, it may be template-related, but I am unable to return to S M or to the dashboard once I am in the Archives. Therefore, I've decided on this approach: a month-by-month post guide. The sw you see in the codes here stood for Salchert's Weblog when I began it in November of 2006. It later became Sprintedon Hollow. AOL provided what were called entry numbers, but they weren't consistent, and they didn't begin at the first cardinal number. That is why the numbers after "sw" came to be part of a post's code. ************** Here then is the month-by-month post guide: *2006* November: 00001 through 00046 - December: 00047 through 00056 -- *2007* January: 00057 through 00137 - February: 00138 through 00241 - March: 00242 through 00295 - April: 00296 through 00356 - May: 00357 through 00437 - June: 00438 through 00527 - July: 00528 though 00550 - August: 00551 through 00610 - September: 00611 through 00625 - October: 00626 through 00657 - November: 00658 through 00729 - December: 00730 through 00762 -- *2008* January: 00763 through 00791 - February: 00792 through 00826 - March: 00827 through 00849 - April: 00850 through 00872 - May: 00873 through 00907 - June: 00908 through 00931 - July: 00932 through 00955 - August: 00956 through 00993 - September 00994 through 01005 - October: 01006 through 01007 - November: 01008 through 01011 - December: 01012 through 01014 -- *2009* January: 01015 through 01021 - February: 01022 through 01028 - March: 01029 through 01033 - April: 01034 through 01036 - May: 01037 through 01044 - ******************************************************* 1976 Today: 2006/11 and 2006/12 -- Rooted Sky 2007: 2007/01/00063rsc -- Postures 2007: 2007/01/sw00137pc -- Sets: 2007/02/sw00215sgc -- Venturings: 2007/03/00216vc -- The Undulant Trees: 2007/03/00266utc -- This Day's Poem: 2007/03/00267tdpc -- Autobio: 2007/04/sw00316ac -- Fond du Lac: 2007/04/00339fdl -- Justan Tamarind: 2007/05/sw00366jtc -- Prayers in December: 2007/05/sw00393pindc -- June 2007: 2007/06/sw00440junec -- Seminary: 2007/07/sw00533semc -- Scatterings: 2008/08/00958sc ** Song Lyrics: 2008/02/sw00797slc ********** 2009-06-02: Have set S M to show 200 posts per page. Unfortunately, you will need to scroll to nearly the bottom of a page to get to the next older/newer page.


Monday, November 27, 2006


12 of 25 1976 Today 353 bicentennial year sonnets (168-182) - June: Year-day 168 Today I found a core of reference waiting on a shelf in Grolier's Book Shop. It is an ocean of charmed recompence that supports my being yet makes me stop to see again what I've been seeing: Life's of a piece that changes and changes, growing from no beginnings we can grasp, its strifes and harmonies filled with/ wonders of knowing. And squaws carry papooses so they see, and chicks carry babies so they're kept blind. The old die young; and the young, old. To find yourself, you must forget to look, just be; be yourself, you must look ahead, behind. This is America: A Prophecy. - June: Year-day 169 This is a song praising maintenance men, who may holler, chew, spit, yet keep things clean; and this is a song for construction men, who build & rebuild and implant the scene with structures we want and architects plan, and this is a song for the architects; and this is a song for the works of Man, praying for beauties he often rejects. The shunned barn, collapsed with its hay, sinks, sinks into its own decay; the orange moon, three-quarters bright, nests at a maple's edge; and animals become the dreams each drinks and the thoughts each accepts, midnight and noon; and a man walks out, and hangs from a ledge. - June: Year-day 170 Long ride on a slow train. There just ain't no way I'm gonna git myself to where I'm goin' on time. Just have to forget time, forget he's even around. Watch for snow come hordin' in at the windows. Let June go like a fadin' dream as the colors climb through the green leaves. Not fret about time, crime, jouncin' from Boston to lost--Chi-ca-gooo. Com'on train you arumblin' on the track. Com'on train you, need some oil in my back. Com'on train you on your hazy tired rails, we gotta git, gotta, out of your jails. Com'on train you, old turtle in attack, mean it when you hare, when your whistle wails. - June: Year-day 171 The trip is over; the trip has just begun. Turn and turn and turn; and stop, sit, and turn. My body wins the coffin, fills the urn; my body dances naked in the sun. Wheeling/ by in a chair, or on the run, a hat to shade my eyes, lessen the burn, considering what's given, what I earn, I sense how a knife to the gut/ must stun. The windows roll & shimmer/ in the leaves, and faces mix & melt & fall apart; my arms change to cotton beneath my sleeves. If this is where we end and where we start-- and I don't know who it is/ what deceives, somewhy a bird's made its nest with my heart. - June: Year-day 172 Death, my friend, is old news I'd like to say I do not care to read; yet as its near I read it anyhow, letting my fear raise goosebumps on my soul/ trying to pray. Am I foolish for not throwing away such news, for not giving a deeper ear to life, to what's to come, or calls out here beside me, though its wearing a toupee? Don't answer me. It's enough the thread holding these words together is ready to bust at the least hint of my attempt to answer. All the mornings/ those papers I'll be folding, as all the afternoons/ turned to ash and dust, as all the steps/ created by/ the dancer. - June: Year-day 173 And around me, like water, rushing sun; and around me, like water, swirls of clover; and when I feel, on one side, I am done, I notice the cool below, and ease over; and try to let the insects go their way, the haze of the heat shimmer and expand without my feeling hotter where I play my unclothed flesh between the sky and land. A sampan on the Yellow River rocks, a blimp exalts two mountaintops in Spain, a mongoose knocks a cobra off its blocks, the fuzzed seeds of dandelions seem rain; I dream I've been here once and will again to bandy with the sunlight's pastel spots. - June: Year-day 174 Step out. The wind will not/ slice off your nose, the moon not host itself upon your tongue; nor will you snatch the fragrance of a rose or learn how Martians on your tastebuds sung. This ageing night, darkening in a corner, whatever its new faults and attributes, more an enchanted well-wisher than scorner, won't chop you up and bury you in roots. So take your thoughts and sail them to the stars and raise a cup to gentleness. For you are moving through a night of special grace, one that, though each circumstance of which/ bars your being from certain pleasures, is true and good, and soothes your back, and clears your face. - June: Year-day 175 Well, my friend, let's go gather conversations from the winds. It's a good day for it. Not a place up the sky is harsh with light.Nations wrangle, but not a place down the sky's/ sot with deep gray clouds. Just dark enough this morning for the mourning dove; just bright enough this afternoon for the goldfinch. The kid horning in the distance won't make me want to hiss. "I tell you, Pat, too many of our young lack respect, especially/ for themselves; will not care, work, grow up . . . be women / men. Why? Coddling parents? laws? Have we begun planting barbarians? Free humans delve, create, live sensibly!" And we, my friend? - June: Year-day 176 The Joplin and Springfield rainbows trance eyes-- lemon, turquoise, orange, gunmetal, rose-- and I don't understand why their repose graces so southwest Missouri, and pries those portions of my heart and mind/ ruled by the gods of self-indulgence, or why so many of the rich watch the poor die and laugh, or one's fundamentalist fooled. Beyond culture the world's alive and well, but who is there, or once there can remain? The rainbows of the spirit start in hell; the rainbows of the body end in pain. I do not know which ones of us can tell where light bows/ in a world so/ streaked with rain. - June: Year-day 177 The body is a fragile work of wonder rising on the arches of its two feet with its lungs pulling in air, sour to sweet, the voice of its courage the voice of thunder. And the arteries, veins, and spritely nerves aligning their ways through the flesh the bones support, and the wild inaudible tones of the molecules, and the muscles' curves. Oh, in a moment the heart could spurn pumping, an insolent gale slash throats with a board, a bittern intrigue with its hidden thumping, a candidate bore with his whitewash stumping, a mind go crazy in a locust hoard, a body flash in the beauty it's stored. - June: Year-day 178 To live is to die; to die is to live. Apple blossoms hold apple blossoms more. Our joy is measured by the joy we give; when our virtues virtue, we don't keep score. Murders occur in our brothers' backyards. The phoenix rises as its ashes choose. A person's touched on by the things he guards. And no one wins until he's learned to lose. In the alley the trash/ sneaks from its cans, and moments of sadness savored and snuffed. Weeds in a corner clutch air with their hands. Caught by an anger, a lost window slams. He was stripped and stomped by shadows of toughs. When we love, we bless, but neverenough. - June: Year-day 179 Sometimes it isn't worth a Teton Dam, my attemptatholding the flow of fuel and controlling it for the person who'll be me if I soundly/ change who I am. Graces laked to be continently used by a spirit their free flow might devour, and laked to strengthen such apportioned power, tunnel this spirit's weak anchorage fused. Some naturals won't unnaturally be tampered with, especially by ill, unstable souls as this one. Just can't win. Seeking myself, I use you; you use me, seeking yourself. The smeared blade of the will. It's as rare as heaven/ to defeat sin. - June: Year-day 180 As the sun coasts toward the tunnel of green, the blue sky hazes its coming farewell, our U. S. flag still/ on a pole to tell another sharp day in our land we've seen. Then the flag's bounced down in settings serene, and the mother folds it. Even the smell of the zyphers please; and yet Rome once fell for lack of a durable/ king/ or queen. Nowhere, nowhere, can we humans erect a realm so perfected it cannot pass; someone or something . . . find means to detect the weaknesses in/ the roots of its grass, even if we in/ our wisdoms suspect/ what seems so solid may/ barely be gas. - June: Year-day 181 More tests; yet more tests. It's TB perhaps. It's my allergies. Anyway, I must now go to the hospital. We can't trust it will heal: my system; that a relapse won't occur; the minor cramps in the calves, the tender blotches that redden, and swell round ankles, turn dark; and what I can't tell: the fluid on my lungs . . . nothing that salves can cure, returning stronger than before, spreading from the lower legs, while the aches and discolorations there deepen, filling my lungs more. So, tests: whatever it takes to reveal the/ low-grade culprit, restore my body to a state less/ slyly chilling. - Junes: Year-day 182 So, I'm on umber St. John's third floor, gathering out a window, and a cop is completing an accident report; and a newsboy, shirt off, braking to a stop, has taken his tan from view; and a sun I cannot see shines a wind-gabbing maple; and a car/ whirls round a rock; and a hunt for a bird without chains/ becomes my staple. After attempts to collect sputum, neither of which was very successful; the lettings of at least 6 vials of blood; X-rays to re-explore the fluid on my lungs, either the temp, pulse, & pressure readings are/ getting to me, or a bird without chains can't coo. - 12 of 25 Brian A. J. Salchert

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